You Really Need It, So Let Go
by CitronPresse
Summary: You could say no, but you just don't want to.  Set post-episode 7.22, with a little license.  Pairing: Mark/Derek.  Rated M.


A/N: written for the prompt _Mark/Derek - "Say, ahhh"_

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><p>"Just don't, Mark, would you?" He slaps your hand away from his face. "I didn't come here so you could play doctor."<p>

"Your face needs stitching up," you say levelly. "I'm one of the best plastic surgeons in the country. You don't want a drink, you don't want to talk, and I have no intention of sitting here twiddling my thumbs while you take your shit out on me. So hold still while I stitch your face up, 'cause you don't want to be reminded of the stupid-ass way you got the scar every time you look in the mirror."

"Because you're such an expert at relationships?"

You smile drily. "Because I'm an expert at fucking them up and you're dangerously close to beating my record." You shake your head. "For Christ's sake Derek. Who the hell says something like that to their wife?" You tilt his chin up, not altogether gently, pulling his face back towards you when he tries to evade your grasp again. "I told you, hold still," you say and, to your surprise, he does.

"I meant it," he says stiffly. "I have no intention of raising a child with someone who doesn't know right from wrong. I'll say it again, if necessary."

"And get another slap across the cheek with Meredith's ring hand?"

"Which just goes to show that –"

"You're an ass." You dab Betadine on the cut. It's pretty small, it would probably have healed on its own but, like you said, you have to do something while he sits here commiserating with himself. Plus, he's never let you stitch him up and there's a part of you that wants him to experience your skills firsthand.

"As opposed to 'I can't even look at you right now,'?" he offers, as you cringe at your words to Lexie the last time she ever really sought out reconciliation. "What does that make you?"

"Also an ass," you concede with a sigh, opening your suture kit and selecting a 5-0 suture. You begin work on the small lac, neither of you talking until you tie off the suture and cut it. "All done," you say and pack away your equipment. "You want a drink now?"

Instead of answering in words, his eyes find yours and stare at you intensely.

"You okay?"

"Remember that time when . . ." he raises an eyebrow, "after you failed your anatomy viva?"

You do. You haven't thought about it in years, though. "We were drunk," you state.

"Then I'll have a drink," he says, his eyes lighting up with an almost wicked smile.

"For Christ's sake, Derek," you say for the second time in twenty minutes, blustering against the fact that you're getting turned on.

"Comfort sex," he states like this is something you do together every week, the smile growing broader. "As I remember, we were pretty good at it."

"We were drunk," you repeat. "I'm pretty sure we both sucked."

He smirks. "I don't think sucking was involved," he says, as you groan at what your poor word choice unleashed. "As I remember we just cut to the chase. There could be sucking this time, though, if you –"

"Derek," you break in. This is not his style. As _you_ remember he didn't even like it that much at the time. The whole thing is just aftermath, the wreckage of his ninety-nine point nine per cent certainly temporary implosion with Meredith and he'll regret all this next morning or, more likely, in five minutes' time. "Just stop, okay?"

He hesitates, but then agrees. "Okay." Except something subtly shifts. His eyes find yours again, filled with a kind of darkened softness, slightly playful, slightly sad that, when he speaks again, is echoed in his words. "I'd like to though. It would help. And I'd . . ." He shrugs. "I'd just like to."

It's been said (not least by yourself, on too many mornings after) that you can't say no to sex. You don't know what this is, though. It's like a kind of pain, a longing somewhere between your mind and your heart and your groin that rips through you until you could say no, you really could, because this is Derek and there are so many reasons not to do this, but now your hand's against his face again, nothing to do with scars this time, and you just don't want to.

There's a moment when you just look at each other, hesitating, daring, and then your tongue is in his mouth, the faint scent of Betadine in your nostrils from his skin, and his hands are on your ass. You fumble for each other's zippers, him finding yours first, audible as he pulls it down, while your hands shake from adrenaline and desire and a kind of fear at what you're doing and, at the same time, that you or he or both of you are going to get cold feet and bail.

He pulls down your jeans and your boxers, his hand on your erection kind of before you expected it because you're not quite caught up yet, making you intake a sharp inhale of almost choking breath. "Shit," you mutter, closing your eyes as his fingers find your balls, his tongue circles the head of your cock and then he's pushing you down onto a seat you can't see, kneeling in front of you, swallowing you, taking you in deeper, drinking you in as you spill down his throat, too quickly, except you don't care because it's so fucking glorious.

"Fuck, Derek," you say, hoarsely because it's all you've got in you right now, your eyes slowly regaining focus, as you slump back against what turns out to be the couch. He backs off and smiles while you regroup. This is surreal, but it's a respite, for both of you really, and one you don't want to miss a second of. "I thought you said you didn't want to play doctor with me."

He grins. "I changed my mind." He pulls down the zipper of his own pants that you never really got to, massaging himself as he waits for his turn. "Hopefully you'll change yours about, uh, twiddling . . . well, not your thumbs perhaps, but -"

Your mouth cuts off his words mid-sentence.


End file.
